


More Than Enough

by poselikeateam



Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bad Puns, Blow Jobs, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottoming from the Top, Coming Untouched, Dildos, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Incubus Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oral Sex, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Porn with Feelings, Power Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Praise Kink, Romantic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sex Magic, Sex Toys, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Switching, Tender Sex, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Vaginal Fingering, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25132741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Sequel to “Too Old for Surprises” — Jaskier wants to take Geralt’s magic strap-on for a ride. Geralt enjoys giving Jaskier what he wants.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778233
Comments: 23
Kudos: 628





	More Than Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I promised a magic dildo sequel and I am a man of my word. Thank you for the birthday well-wishes, I had a lovely day. 💕

It turns out that Jaskier was being completely serious when he’d said he had plans for Geralt’s false cock. He’d asked about it enough times that the witcher had to tell him in no uncertain terms to _stop_. Thankfully, when the bard realised he was actually making him uncomfortable, he did stop bringing it up.

Still, Geralt can tell that it had never really left his mind. Every so often, he’ll catch the bard’s eyes wandering toward Roach’s saddlebags, the man himself smelling of lust, eyes twinkling with curiosity. Geralt knows that Jaskier is probably trying to figure out just how he’d stored the thing, because the bard had been through his bags before and never seen it. It’s just that he’s also pretty damn sure that the bard is thinking about Geralt’s _packing abilities_ in more ways than one. 

It doesn’t make sense. Jaskier is obviously interested in his prosthetic cock, and it’s not as if it doesn’t feel good to use it, but he just can’t bring himself to actually put it to use now. He doesn’t know why he’s stalling, at this point, not really. 

He knows that part of it is that they just haven’t been spending enough time in towns, and Geralt doesn’t feel comfortable using it if they’re out in the open. Admittedly, though, he has kind of been avoiding staying in towns for too long. It doesn’t make sense — after all, Jaskier has seen Geralt’s actual body, has been _intimate_ with said body. It shouldn’t be uncomfortable after all of that to show him a toy, but somehow, it is. Finally, after wasting far too much time and energy on figuring out exactly why this bothers him the way that it does, he understands.

“Am I not enough?” he asks suddenly, the second he realises it.

“What?” 

Geralt looks everywhere but in Jaskier’s direction, tries to act like it’s no big deal. “Just because I don’t have a problem with my parts, doesn’t mean no one else does. I understand that. You don’t have to pretend it’s enough.”

“Geralt,” says the bard, sounding as lost and confused as he had when he’d found out that he wasn’t human, “where the fuck did you get the idea that your absolutely fantastic cunt _bothers_ me?”

The witcher shrugs one massive shoulder, still not looking at his lover. “You kept asking about the cock Triss gave me,” he says with no small amount of embarrassment, “and I know you’ve stopped, but the way you look at my bags — I don’t want to keep doing this if I’m not what you want.”

As much as it pains him, it’s the truth. He loves Jaskier, and wants to be with him, but not if he has to be something he’s not. If Jaskier loves something that he _could_ be, rather than who he _is_ — well, it isn’t worth it. It hurts, though, because he really had thought that Jaskier was different, that against all odds someone finally saw and accepted and wanted and loved _him_ , didn’t try to latch onto an ideal version of him that could only ever exist in someone else’s head. 

Lost in the ugly spiral of his thoughts, Geralt is actually startled for a brief moment when he feels Jaskier’s arms, strong and firm, wrap around his waist. “Darling,” Jaskier says, pressing little kisses to every bit of skin he can reach, “no, it’s not like that. I love you, I love your body, I don’t want to change a thing about you — well, maybe a few things. I’d like it if you’d stop trying to hide when you’re hurt, for one, and I certainly wouldn't mind if we could do something about that awful martyr complex of yours. But not this, never this. If I never see your magic cock, that’s fine by me.”

“Then why is it so important?” he can’t help but ask, even as he leans into the touch. It’s not like him to be this insecure, and even less so to express it, but Jaskier has always had a knack for making him feel things he isn’t quite used to. 

Jaskier shrugs against Geralt’s back, not moving to face him. “Honestly, I’m just curious. It’s fascinating, isn’t it? I’d love to see how it works. You know I like trying new things. And it’s something that gives you pleasure, so of course I’d want to try it. I want to try everything that makes you feel good, dear heart. But if it isn’t something you want, then it’s not something I want either.” Though they aren’t facing one another, Geralt can tell by Jaskier’s scent and the steady beat of his heart that he’s telling the whole and honest truth.

So, he gently pulls Jaskier’s arms away from himself, just enough to turn, and places them back around his waist. Now, facing the bard, Geralt presses against him and takes his lips in a gentle kiss, which is eagerly returned. 

He decides then and there that the next town that allows them to stay for a few days will be the one they try it in.

**

Geralt pulls out the small enchanted case from a hidden compartment at the bottom of his bag. He’s never shown it to anyone, not like this, unattached to his body, so he’s admittedly kind of nervous. He doesn’t need to be, he knows that. After all, this is Jaskier. Still, he can’t keep that little bit of worry from taking root.

“This is it,” he says, trying not to think too much about the situation. “The case is magic, so it’s bigger inside than out. Easier to keep hidden amongst my things. Magically sealed, too.”

Jaskier chuckles good-naturedly. “Triss really likes you.”

“Hmm,” is the only response he’ll give to that. Opening the case, he hands it to Jaskier, who pulls out the cock. It’s flaccid now, of course. After all, when he wears it, it is made to function just like a real one. And he knows it’s not attached to him just yet, but already he can practically feel his lover’s fingers on it, and he shudders just a little at the thought that they’re really _doing this_.

The bard’s gaze darkens with lust, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "So," he asks, trying to sound unaffected despite the deep scent of his interest thick in the air, "how does it work?"

Geralt, for his part, is glad that he can't blush, because he would be beet red, especially with his fair complexion. (Jaskier’s words, of course — he wouldn’t call his skin _fair_ so much as _deathly pale_ , but he is no poet.) He reaches out, hand only just staying steady, and takes hold of the toy. "It's magic," he rumbles. Even though Jaskier already knows that, he just needs some place to start. “It sort of... attaches to my skin, here." He demonstrates by pressing the base of the toy to his mound, where a cock would go, and it magically seals itself to him. It's always an odd feeling, to be sure, but not unpleasant. Sometimes he'll wear it just to know what it feels like, having a cock and balls just _there_ for day to day use. "From there, it acts just like a real prick would. Except..."

Jaskier raises one brow, clearly intrigued. "Except?"

The witcher hums, still feeling a little awkward. "Nothing comes out of it."

"You'd think someone would notice," Jaskier muses, speculating rather than poking fun at him, "if they've just been fucked, but you never spend."

Geralt shrugs, feeling slightly self-conscious. "Witchers are sterile, so... it's a good excuse."

"Ooh," croons the bard, eyes bright, "clever."

He can't help but preen just a little under the small amount of praise. Something about Jaskier watching him, praising him, while he has his own cock in his hand, makes said cock twitch a little with interest. Jaskier's eyes follow the movement hungrily, watching as it starts to harden, just as a real one would.

"That is magnificent," Jaskier murmurs a little distantly, his own breeches tenting, showing just how interested he is in all of this. "Triss has really outdone herself, hasn't she?"

As with many of their conversations, Jaskier doesn't actually wait for an answer. He's on his knees with impressive speed, nuzzling up against Geralt's cock and balls with his lips, his nose, his cheek. "Feels real," he says, placing little kisses and licks along the sac. "Tastes real, too. Tastes just like you."

"Fuck, Jaskier," Geralt groans. He doesn't know how, after all the time they've known each other, Jaskier still manages to catch him off guard, throw him for a loop. In this moment, though, he certainly isn't complaining. Being caught off guard in battle is one thing, a terrible concept, but being caught off in bed… it’s something he’s certainly learned to love.

The bard, for his part, seems to be entirely done talking for once, instead more than content with using his mouth for another purpose. He takes the length of it into his mouth — fuck, into his _throat_ as quickly as he can. 

“Stop,” Geralt says, and the bard pulls away immediately. He looks upset, and Geralt realises that he’s probably thinking he’s done something wrong, so the witcher tries to explain. “Your throat. I’ll never hear the end of it if you can’t sing tomorrow.”

Jaskier’s troubled expression quickly shifts into one of mirth, and he laughs boisterously, as though Geralt has just told a fantastic joke. “Darling,” he chuckles, “do you really believe that silly myth?”

“What myth?” Geralt asks, flummoxed.

“That sucking cock hurts one’s throat, of course.”

Geralt pauses for a moment, entirely flabbergasted, before he remembers that until very recently, Jaskier had thought himself human. For the past sixty-three fucking years. So, of course he wouldn’t be able to tell what was normal for everyone else and what was simply a result of his incubus blood. 

“Jaskier,” he says, not unkindly, “a sore throat is a common result of taking a cock into it for _most people._ ” He hopes that the extra emphasis makes it clear what he means, because he honestly doesn’t want to have to bring up the whole _not quite human_ thing. It’s still kind of a sore spot for the bard, and he doesn’t want to come across as patronising — especially not when he’s about to have his dick sucked. 

The bard furrows his brow, obviously confused, as if he’s just been presented with a complicated puzzle. Then, his expression exchanges entirely to what Geralt thinks is something akin to sheepishness. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Right.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, though he isn’t quite sure what he wants to say. All he knows is that he wants to comfort his lover, and that he’s got a bad track record with that sort of thing.

Whatever Jaskier had been thinking seems to resolve itself quickly, though, because he plasters on a lewd grin and nuzzles against Geralt’s inner thigh. “Well,” he says, somehow sounding both cheery and sly, “I suppose I was simply _made_ to suck your cock, then.” And before Geralt can even process _that_ , let alone what it does to him, his hard prick is sliding back into Jaskier’s throat as if he really _was_ made for it. 

Geralt has lain with a lot of whores in his lifetime. He’s had to — not many will willingly lay with a witcher, and of those who will, they aren’t all his type. Plus, well… he’s rarely felt _safe_ during sex, and he doesn’t want to feel like he owes anyone anything, or form emotional attachments that will only hurt him in the end. Transactional sex is, therefore, his best bet. Well, it _had_ been, anyway. The point is, he has paid for a lot of dispassionate blowjobs, and had a fair number of impassioned ones as well — but none have _ever_ felt like this. It’s almost like Jaskier’s throat is a cunt itself, the way it opens up to take him, and the way that Jaskier seems to derive honest to Gods _pleasure_ from blowing him. 

The bard’s pleasured moans send vibrations up his length that have him seeing stars. The way Jaskier’s throat contracts rhythmically around him is mindblowing. And his fucking _tongue_ , dear Gods, it’s like it has a mind of its own. 

Honestly, he hadn’t thought that it could feel any better up until this point. Then, Jaskier presses two fingers into Geralt’s cunt, and he comes so hard he nearly blacks out. 

Just because he has had a lot of sex, doesn’t mean that it’s all been good. And, most of his partners haven’t known about his cunt. It’s not something he really wants to tell anyone about. People already treat him differently, call him a freak — and while he knows that he isn’t, not for _that_ , he still doesn’t want to give close-minded folks more of a reason to chat shit. Geralt is a private man, always has been, doesn’t even like when people _look_ at him. There’s no fucking way he wants his _genitals_ to be a matter of discussion — it’s bad enough that people already talk about his dick size. If they knew that it wasn’t _real_ , no one would ever give him any fucking peace.

So, essentially, he has rarely told anyone about his cunt, is always the one doing the ploughing when he pays for sex regardless of the gender of the person he’s paying. It’s safer that way. And the few committed relationships he’s been with have been with women, so they’d wanted him to top them. Everyone assumes a witcher should be dominant and aggressive in bed, and while it’s not _bad_ , it’s not always — or even usually — what he wants. He likes being fucked by Jaskier, likes all of the tricks his bard uses, likes feeling that big prick in him in every way they’ve had sex thus far. 

He’s used toys on himself, but it doesn’t really do anything for him. He knows that it isn’t real, that he’s just fucking himself, and it feels awkward to press something inside of him like that. When it’s Jaskier, he feels so good, there’s simply no room in his mind for awkwardness — and knowing that on the other end of the prick inside him is his lover and not his hand, well, that really works for him. Usually when he gets himself off he’ll just focus on his cock, and not the prosthetic one (although, he’s used that one as well). It’s a matter of need, of quickly getting himself off so he can get it out of the way, worth no more effort or consideration than scratching his nose.

The whole point is that he has never had a relationship like this, has never been with anyone like Jaskier. No one has ever blown him and fingered him at the same time and he finds himself wishing that he hadn’t come so quickly, because it felt so incredible. He wants the feeling to linger, he wants to try it again, he _wants_ —

“Still with me, love?” Jaskier asks, pressing a filthy kiss to the head of his prick. 

He hisses at the feeling. “Yeah,” he grunts. 

“You liked having my fingers in you while your cock was down my throat?”

“You’re incorrigible,” he says, though it’s not an actual reproach. 

“Mm, a downright scoundrel, me,” Jaskier answers cheekily, fondling the witcher’s balls. “So, tell me, witcher — you want to fuck my throat while I finger your cunt open?”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Geralt taunts. He’s trying desperately not to show how much the filth spilling from Jaskier’s lips is actually affecting him.

From the look on his bard’s face, he is not doing a very good job. “No, just my witcher,” he answers with a cheeky grin. “I still need an answer.”

“Okay,” he says. What the fuck else could he possibly say to that? He can’t say no — well, he _can_ , but he very much does not want to. And sorry, but he isn’t in the right headspace to be able to say _please_ in bed without so much embarrassment that it ruins the whole evening. Well, not _yet_ , at any rate.

Instead of a verbal response, Jaskier simply guides Geralt’s hands to the back of his head, opens his mouth, and _waits_. The way he’s looking up at the witcher through half-lidded eyes, all lust and hunger, makes him want to just let go and fuck into that talented, bratty mouth, but first he needs to lay some boundaries.

“You’ll tap my leg three times if it’s too much, if you want to stop for any reason,” says Geralt. Obviously Jaskier won’t be able to say anything with his mouth stuffed full of Geralt’s prick, after all.

“Yes, dear,” Jaskier teases. Then, his mouth is open again, and Geralt slides himself in.

He hadn’t even had any time to grow soft in between. He doesn’t have time to think about it now, not when Jaskier has three fingers inside of him, rubbing against his inner walls with an expert precision. Not when Jaskier’s throat squeezes around his hard prick as he thrusts forward into it. Not when Jaskier’s nails dig into Geralt’s thighs, not tapping out, but grounding himself against his own pleasure. Not when Jaskier takes such pleasure from sucking his cock and fingering him open. 

The fact that he’s just come once is apparently enough to keep him from getting off again too soon, which is a relief. This feels so fucking good, it would be a shame if it ended early — and, well, it would be embarrassing as fuck on top of that. He tries to keep his thrusts slow and shallow, not wanting to risk hurting his bard, but when Jaskier looks up at him and swallows deliberately, pressing his own head forward as if to say _more, I can take it_ — it’s too much, fuck, how could anyone hold back after that?

When he gets to fucking Jaskier’s throat good and proper, both of them are slick with sweat and making the most lewd, wanton, needy sounds. It doesn’t take long for Geralt to come again (or, it doesn’t _feel_ like it takes long), and he pulls Jaskier’s hair as he meets his release.

He has just a moment to feel bad that he has come twice now and Jaskier hasn’t come once. Then, he smells Jaskier’s spend, sees the wet spot on the front of the bard’s trousers, and raises one eyebrow.

“You’re gorgeous when you come,” Jaskier pants as an apparent explanation, pulling off of him with a wet _pop_ that’s at least half performative. 

Geralt looks away for just a moment, as he usually does when Jaskier says something that embarrasses him like this. He only gets that one moment, though, before Jaskier is in his arms and pressing against him, taking his mouth in a searing kiss. That talented tongue is in Geralt’s mouth, now, and he shudders at the thought that it was just around his prick. 

“Would you be a dear and fuck me?” Jaskier asks. He has this cocky grin on his kiss-reddened lips that makes Geralt’s heart almost _flutter_. The way his chest is heaving and his eyes keep roaming Geralt’s naked body, though, is anything but casual. It indicates how desperate the bard is for it and honestly, it’s almost more than Geralt can handle. 

“Fuck,” he groans, taking another hot, messy kiss. He bends his knees mid-kiss, refusing to break it for even a moment, and manages to get his hands around Jaskier’s thighs just enough to lift him. The bard’s legs wrap around his waist and he _laughs_ against Geralt’s mouth as his heart hammers in his chest. 

“You’re so,” Jaskier begins, interrupting himself with another brief kiss, “fucking strong.” He kisses Geralt again, seemingly unable — or more likely unwilling — to stop that particular activity.

Geralt merely hums against Jaskier’s lips. Kissing him, after all, feels far more important than answering that particular statement. The bard ruts against Geralt’s stomach, and the witcher can feel the hard line of his cock through the spend drying on his trousers. He walks them both over to the bed and bends down, laying Jaskier across it, before pulling away. 

Jaskier’s arms don’t leave his neck, and are instead joined by his mouth. Geralt works on removing the last of Jaskier’s clothes — he’d been shirtless when they started, but had never taken off his damned trousers — and the moment he wraps his hand around the bard’s thick cock, he just knows he needs to taste it. 

Geralt, of course, is not an incubus, even partly. He has no biological need to suck Jaskier’s cock. He knows that his throat may be sore afterwards. But it is such a lovely cock, and on such a lovely man, that he really would never be able to forgive himself if he didn’t have it in his mouth. And while he knows that he can always taste it later — after all, Jaskier is fucking _insatiable_ — he really, really wants to do so now. 

As much as he loves having Jaskier on top of him, wringing pleasure from his body as he pleases, it’s nice to turn it around. He wants to take care of Jaskier the way Jaskier takes care of him. And he’d never thought he’d allow anyone to _take care of him_ , in any way. He never thought anyone would _want_ to. He isn’t going to complain, though, and he _certainly_ isn’t averse to returning the favour. 

So he kisses his way down Jaskier’s chest, the soft hair tickling his nose as he does, though not unpleasantly. Geralt is unused to having someone he can just _play with_. In his experience, sex has always been fast, needy, demanding. It has almost been aggressive, on occasion. He’s never been able to just savour someone like this, and now that he can, he fucking loves it. It makes sense, why Jaskier always fucking teases him. It’s not a tease at all, but a _taste_ , a lead-in to more. 

Jaskier’s body is truly beautiful. Geralt has admired it before, of course, but never like _this_. He’s never fucked his bard, never been the one to take him apart. He understands the appeal. With other people, they always expected him to be rough, to rut into them like an animal. Not Jaskier, though — the two of them have talked about this at length, but even if they hadn’t, he knows that Jaskier isn’t like other people. He’s never seen Geralt as anything but _himself_. 

Fuck, he loves this man.

Now, for once, he is really able to indulge. He can press kisses wherever he wants, taste any part of the bard that he pleases. Jaskier is rarely, if ever this patient with anything, but perhaps his incubus blood allows him to derive pleasure from how much Geralt is enjoying this. He’s always enjoyed foreplay, but rarely has he ever been allowed to give in to the desire to really enjoy it. He feels as though he is spoiling himself as much as he is spoiling his bard.

The noises that Jaskier is making are gorgeous. Geralt loves that voice, as much as he pretends not to. He loves so much about this ridiculous bard. Right now, he absolutely loves the taste of him. Geralt is more than happy to circle Jaskier’s tight hole with his tongue, delighting in the shuddery gasp it elicits. He can’t help but enjoy the way his lover falls apart under his fingers and tongue. 

Honestly, being the one on top has never been his favourite thing, but he is really starting to see the appeal.

“Darling, precious, _please_ ,” Jaskier gasps. Sadly, it seems as though even he has his limits when it comes to drawing this out. That’s fine, though — neither of them really has a refractory period, and they have all night. 

So, Geralt takes the head of Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. The taste of him is incredible, his scent strong enough to make Geralt’s head spin. He knows that he has sort of animalistic instincts as a direct result of the mutations, reacting to scent in a more primal way than a human would, but he has never enjoyed someone’s musk as much as he does now. It must be because of how he feels about the bard, the fact that Jaskier is _his_ making his scent a grounding, comforting sort of thing, like a roaring fire on a winter morning. 

Jaskier’s hands are buried in Geralt’s hair, tugging every now and again, and it’s such a good feeling. He suckles on the head, rolling it across his tongue, before he pulls the foreskin back with his lips and gets to work licking around Jaskier’s exposed glans. The bard keens at the feeling as Geralt uses one hand to roll his bollocks and the other to work him open, fingers slick with the oil they’d set aside before they started. 

His hole is something of a paradox. It clings around Geralt’s fingers so tightly but opens so easily for him. From somewhere above his head Jaskier is babbling, begging for more, and Geralt has no reason not to oblige. The bard’s arse sucks his fingers in and squeezes like a vise and if that’s how it’s going to feel around his _cock_ , fuck, he doesn’t know how he’ll bear it. 

That’s not his main concern right now, though. What _is_ his main concern is the prick in his mouth, the way his bard reacts so beautifully when Geralt takes him deeper into his throat. He may not have incubus powers, but he is a witcher. If he hurts his throat, it will heal quickly enough. And he wants, Gods does he want. He wants to lick and suck until Jaskier is spilling in his mouth, wants to savour the taste of his release. 

And savour it he does. When Jaskier tugs on his hair and comes into his mouth with a low groan of his name, Geralt keeps lapping at his slit, trying to coax out every drop of spend the bard has to offer him. Usually it’s not a taste he enjoys, but with Jaskier… he doesn’t know if it’s because of the bard’s incubus heritage or because of his own animalistic attachment, but he loves it. He lets it pool in his mouth, savouring the taste, moaning low in his throat at how fucking _good_ this is. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks tentatively, petting his hair and bringing him back to reality. Geralt realises that he’s been quiet, and is (not for the first time) very glad that he can’t blush. Rather than say anything, he opens his mouth, showing Jaskier the pool of come that coats his tongue, and then closes his mouth and — slowly, savouring this as well — he makes a show of swallowing it. “Oh, holy _fuck_ ,” groans the bard, eyes wide and dark with lust. 

“You taste good,” Geralt says. He finds it isn’t as embarrassing as he’d thought it would be. It is, after all, the honest truth. 

“If you don’t fuck me _right this instant_ —” Jaskier begins, but he doesn’t get to finish his threat because it reminds Geralt where his fingers still are. It isn’t a stretch (and fuck, he’s going to blame Jaskier’s influence for _that_ pun) to spread his fingers, opening his bard’s tight hole almost too easily. 

Well, there’s no denying that he’s ready. And Geralt would be a liar and a fool if he said that he wasn’t also more than ready to get some pressure on his aching cock. 

So, without further ado, Geralt slicks his prick and slides it home.

Entering his bard is a nearly indescribable pleasure. He’s had sex before, but it has _never_ felt like this. And, unlike the other men he’s laid with in the past, Jaskier does not need time to adjust to his size. His arse opens up like a well-used cunt and squeezes him like nothing ever has, and it should be impossible for both of those things at once, but… well, it also makes sense. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier whines, his knees hooked over the witcher’s shoulders. “You feel so good inside me, Gods, I love this. Ah, how does it feel? Do I feel good wrapped around your cock? Hn, fuck, you’re incredible, I’ve— ah, yes, there! I’ve never been so full, oh, _darling_!” 

Jaskier knows exactly what he’s doing to him, Geralt is sure of it. He loves when Jaskier praises him, loves hearing his voice in the throes of passion. No one’s ever talked him through fucking them like this. Sex with Jaskier is consistently nothing like sex with anyone else, and he never wants to go back now that he’s experienced this. 

Geralt reaches out to touch Jaskier’s already weeping cock but the bard actually slaps his hand away. “No,” he groans, rolling his hips against Geralt’s thrusts, “let me— ah! Let me come on your cock, please.”

How could he possibly say no to that? And how could he resist leaning in, practically bending Jaskier in half with the movement, to take his lips in a searing, filthy kiss? They’re more panting into each other’s mouths than actually kissing, but the contact is good. Any skin contact with Jaskier is good, and he never wants this to end.

It does, though — it has to. His cock is hitting his lover’s prostate with an almost expert precision now, and the steady pressure ends up being just enough to shove Jaskier over the edge. The smell of his release, the sound of his voice, the sight of him, the way he squeezes around Geralt’s prick — it’s all too much, and he’s following with a noise that he almost doesn’t believe is coming out of his own mouth.

They come down slowly, holding each other tight, a tangle of sweaty limbs. When Geralt pulls out, they both shudder, and he takes the cock off almost immediately. It’s too much right now, and he just wants… he wants to hold his bard to his chest and bask in the closeness. 

It takes a second to wipe it down and put it away, and a bit longer to wipe the both of them down, and then he is crawling into their rented bed. He’s never been much of a cuddler, but deep down he suspects that it’s simply because he’s never really had the opportunity. He feels comfortable, safe, content, loved. These are not feelings that a witcher is supposed to experience, but he can’t really bring himself to care. After all, he is not the average witcher. Jaskier is not the average bard. Theirs is not the average relationship.

They press lazy kisses against each other’s bare skin, and Geralt thinks to himself for perhaps the first time that he is a very, very lucky man.


End file.
